


A mating dance

by ravenpuff1956



Series: A magnificent waltz [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Falling In Love, Late Night Conversations, Slow Dancing, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenpuff1956/pseuds/ravenpuff1956
Summary: Newt looks out over the cold New York skyline. He doesn't want to leave. No, that's not right. He doesn't want to leave her.





	A mating dance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I've wanted to write a story about Newt and Tina dancing ever since Katherine said in an interview Tina goes to speakeasy's to dance, and it was a way she got into character.  
> I'd really like, in the next movie in Rio, a situation to come up where she gets to show off her skills. And she's really free and happy and Newt melts. But that'll probably be a dream!  
> Anyway, this is a cute fic, the night before Newt leaves in the first film, where Newt slowly falls in love, and they both get to show off their dancing skills.  
> Hope everyone enjoys!

Newt picks his way through the Goldstein’s apartment, eyes not yet adjusted to the murky darkness. One arm outstretched, the other clutching a lukewarm cup of cocoa, he stumbles towards the open window. Every now and again he pauses, holding his breath, listening intently for sounds of slumber. Queenie's light snuffling, Tina’s…nothing.

She sleeps like the dead. It’s one of the many things Newt’s found out about the raven haired witch during his stay. His ever growing list includes two sweet dimples, hidden too much by her frowns. That she can make a fine cup of tea by American standards; nothing he couldn’t iron out in a week or two. And the knowledge that her pale skin is scattered with secret moles, tiny constellations for him to find and map. (Three on her elbow; seen when she rolled up her sleeves to make dinner, two on her ankle; when she curled up last night on the couch before bed. And one between the valley of her breasts; looked up at an inopportune moment as they were feeding the mooncalves. The sight may be burned on his brain, a smudge of brown surround by peaks of pearly white. Merlin’s beard.) 

Newt gathers these facts like others gather stamps or snuff boxes. He stores them away carefully- locked in the back of his mind so Queenie can’t reach them- for a rainy day where he might need them. He’s leaving for England tomorrow. 

Uncurling his leg, like an abnormally large spider, Newt carefully places his foot over the window sill, and ducks out into the crisp night air. 

Normally it’s the interesting creatures and places that grow on him during his travels. Magnificent alps, remarkable breeding patterns, those are the particulars that draw him in. But his New York adventure has been different. It’s brought him friends, for the first time since boyhood. The first time, really, in ten years, Newt believes he’s found others to share his life with. 

Queenie, cheerful and mischievous, up for any scheme. Jacob, who might be the best man, certainly the best muggle he’s ever met. It caused him great pleasure to give up the occamy eggs for his new friend’s sugar coated dream. And Tina. 

Intensely frustrating, wonderfully caring, exasperatingly loyal, incredibly strong. Hot and cold, sweet and sour. Rule follower, but of her own, not of others. Someone of steadfast opinions, but opened minded when presented sufficient evidence. Capable of clear, mind-numbing happiness, but seemingly stuck in a bit of a sad chasm. More willing to help out others than deal with her discontent. Beautiful. Heart wrenchingly beautiful. Newt’s never met anyone quite like her before. And he certainly wouldn’t expect such a person to be an auror. 

‘She could give Theseus a run for his money,’ he chuckles into his drink. Newt himself has never managed to put his prat, though admittedly loving, of a brother down a peg. The strange, disgraced second son never had a chance against the war hero, golden boy. Not even as children; the eight-year difference between them was monstrously unfair. Tina could jinx him though, he thinks dreamily, push him up against a wall, or perhaps something even better. Perhaps at an ill-timed comment about he being ‘strange’ or ‘annoying’ Tina, eyes flashing, magic boiling at her fingertips, would come gloriously to his rescue. Will he ever get to see it? Most likely not, not when he just got her well-desevered job back at MACUSA, not when he’s being sent home, like a child sent to bed, placing a wide ocean between them. Will he ever get see her again? 

“I don’t want to go,” his soft admission, blows out into the night air, in tiny clouds of breath. 

The bright stars flicker down at him accusingly. If the twinkling lights could, they would’ve rolled their eyes. Newt buries his face in his hands, the steam from his mug boiling his forehead. The accusing blink of the night is right; it’s more than that. 

He doesn’t want to leave her. 

Creak. The ominous sound of a door opening causes Newt’s hand to twitch towards his wand. Slowly he crouches, ignoring how the light snow seeps into his trousers, dampening his skin. Peering over the windowsill he catches a flash of sparkling heel stepping into the Goldstein’s living room. An intruder! Newt’s breath is coming in short, scared pants, and as much as he tries, he can’t follow his own advice. He worries. What if it’s one of Grindelwald’s cronies, come to get revenge on those that’d thwarted him? He raises a sweaty hand, pointing his wand at the door. Why on earth did he leave his case on the other side of the room, and out of his reach? He even left Pickett inside; the creature was curled up on his pillow. 

A dark silhouette carefully creeps into the apartment, gingerly making their way into the abode. The dark is too deep for Newt to properly recognise their features, but he gathers from their shadow they’re a female. Perhaps that horrible second salemer woman had a sister. Newt draws up his courage, calming his trembling hand, raising it over his head. 

“Stupefy!” he shouts. 

The stranger moves like a tiger, quick and certain. Easily dodging the spell, she quickly casts another, which pulls Newt out of his hiding place. Having no time to react he finds himself hanging upside down by the ankles with strong lengths of rope holding him in place. Blood pumping in his ears, he struggles fruitlessly against is bonds, until a familiar gasp send him crashing into the couch. 

“Mercy Lewis, Newt!” Tina cries, as he moans with pain into the cushions. He feels the light touch of the wand on his back, untangling the ropes that bind him, and he slowly sits up, massaging the raw indentations embedded into his skin. 

“What on earth were you doing?” she scolds, flicking an agitated wand to a few candles dotted about the room, “trying to scare me to death?” She turns around to face him, hands on hips, an abrasive eyebrow raised in confrontation. 

Newt is unable to do anything but stutter, his tongue loose and useless. The sudden soft candlelight, has put on her on full display. And Merlin’s beard. 

It’s a different dress from the one she wore to the blind pig, but none the less magnificent. A first glance it could be something she could wear to meet his mother. The skirt drops on her knees, sleeves flutter on her delicate shoulders, the neckline reaches her collar bones. But then the façade is revealed to him, as the warm light catches. It’s not a dress at all, instead an almost invisible sheath to give the impression of fabric, covered in glittering diamantes. What is actually covering her is nothing more than a mere silver shift, that ends in the middle of her thighs. It’s like she’s a peace of moonlight, Newt swallows tightly, with her luminescent skin, and shining necklace. Come down from the stars to save him. 

“Well?” she asks again, seemingly completely unashamed of her attire, and unaware of his reaction. 

He’s currently reciting the twelve uses of dragon’s blood to calm himself; he’s still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. Dreams she’s already begun to make an appearance in. 

“Just getting some fresh air,” he mumbles helplessly, unable to prevent his gaze from raking her form, “Tina, why are you?” he raises a vague hand to her attire. 

An incredulous look falls on her face, but then she starts, horror struck, and her arms dropping limp to her sides. She too begins to fumble, teeth catching on her bottom lip. A red blaze makes it way up her cheeks. Newt averts his eyes, for her sake as well as his (He’s found another cluster of moles near her knee). 

“I’m sorry Tina, it’s none of my business,” he stands awkwardly, brushing down his pants, “I’ll just go back to bed now,” he makes a move to walk around her, his case just within his reach, up against one leg on the dining room table. 

“No, don’t,” Tina says quickly, her fingers brushing over his sleeve. Her soft skin presses momentarily against his wrist bone, and they both jump apart as if burned. 

Newt takes a deep breath, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. Her heels make her slightly taller than him, and her doe eyes stare warily down at him. 

“I was just, out,” she bounces on her toes, rubbing her arm nervously, “dancing,” she admits, scrunching up her nose self-consciously. Adorably. 

“Dancing?” he asks her, a bemused smile creeping on his face. 

Tina Goldstein, in his opinion, was the least likely one of his new friends to go out on a Friday night. More like curled up with a book and a glass of wine. Or, a little voice whispers, with you in your case, Dougal’s arms wrapped around her legs, dirt under her fingers, keeping you company with her soft smiles and curious questions. Yet some stray strands of hair are stuck to the sides of her cheeks, clearly plastered there by sweat. And it would explain her elaborate outfit. Tina wobbles on her heels, huffs, then spells them away. 

“Yes, dancing,” she explains, a smidge more relaxed, stretching out her toes on the straggly carpet, “at a speakeasy, y’know?” 

Newt blinks at her blankly. Tina cocks her head, in clear befuddlement. Then she snaps her fingers, creating a fast beat, before begin to dance, rather energetically, in a small circle. He takes a quick step back, feeling at risk of getting hit from any stray legs or wild arms. He’d be a little scared to taking any part in the party, not seeing how anyone could possibly dance like that without standing at least a metre apart from one another. However Tina’s movements are strong and free, and her face holds an aura of happiness he hasn’t had much of a chance to see in her. She’s usually so tense, so caught up in getting things done, Newt can’t help the content feeling that rushes through him. To see this side in her is a privilege, that she must not bestow on many, and it makes him happy…that she’s happy. Is that normal? After less than a week? She halts her movements, and crosses her arms of her chest awkwardly.

“Has the Charleston not made it to England yet?” Tina asks timidly, a light blush across her cheeks. 

“Sorry, no, I don’t think so,” he replies, ducking his head a little. 

Quite honestly, he’s not home enough to find the dancing haunts at home, let alone enough to be caught up with the latest dance steps. The last time he properly danced it was in a ballroom, a waltz with elves playing flutes and violins, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling. He wore a white tie, and the girl on his arm wore white flowers in her hair. The girl he thought was his forever… A terrible thought hits him, something he didn’t even consider before. 'You can’t go dancing alone'. It’s as though he’s accidentally walked through a ghost, like being thrown into an ice-cold lake; his blood freezes. 

Tina is now innocently padding round the kitchen, completely oblivious to Newt’s inner turmoil. She casually waves her wand over the stove, causing the kettle to begin whistling. He vaguely wonders about them disturbing a sleeping Queenie, but surely if she hasn’t woken yet, a ward must be around her room, and Tina doesn’t seem too worried about keeping quiet. Honestly it’s about the last thing on his mind. 

The first is; does Tina have someone? A ‘special fella’ as Jacob would say. Why shouldn’t she? A wonderful woman like her would’ve surely caught the attention of a school mate, or an auror colleague. Someone that feels entitled to ask her to accompany him on Friday night, and to stay out with her till the early hours of the morning. A sting of jealously presses into his side, infecting his mind, causing vivid hallucinations. The image of another man pressing up against Tina’s slim frame in a smoky club, makes Newt’s hands shake with rage. It shouldn’t have been the faceless man he’s imaging, curling his sticky arm around Tina’s waist, buying her drinks, sharing her smiles. No, no, it should’ve been, it should’ve been…

Tina looks over her shoulder, eyes crinkling at the corners. One of her hands is lying on the kettle, fiddling with the handle. 

“Do you want a drink?” she asks quietly, “I know it’s late, but,”

‘It should’ve been me,’. The realisation that Newt wants nothing more to sit down next to her, hold her hand and talk until the early hours of the morning, causes a satisfying hum to enter his body. He never thought he’d feel like this about another person again. 

“Newt?” Tina asks anxiously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll have a drink,” he says quickly. He summons his old cup from the place where it fell, making sure there’s nothing left in it before setting it down on the kitchen table. 

“Another one?” she says with a wry smile.

“Another one,” Newt says, also smiling, sliding out a chair, and dropping into it. 

Nodding, Tina floats the kettle over to his cup and hers, filling them to the brim with chocolate coloured liquid. She sets her down her drink a bit too hard, and the liquid splashes over the rim, and onto her dress. She sits down opposite him, abashedly avoiding his gaze. They’re sitting in the same position they sat in only a mere week ago. Expect now there’s not a love-struck couple flanking their sides. And a light breeze of mutual respect and admiration has blown away their initial suspicions. 

Tina drinks her cocoa with both hands, her fingertips meeting around the wide mug. Her nails are mismatched, uneven, some even bitten down to the quick. ‘Not at all ladylike’ as his mother would say. But they’re soft and supple to the touch, something he learnt after their brief dance with death. Newt wonders if she took note of his, if she liked them even though they’re covered in bites, scratches and calluses. Did they feel nice tangled around her skin, or did she think it was odd, strange, that they were covered so? 

“Are the creatures alright?” Tina asks him, leaning forward over the table, breaking their comfortable silence. Newt almost chokes his cocoa.

“Yes, of course, why?” he asks, spluttering. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs bashfully, “I was just wondering why you were up so late,” 

Newt swallows, searching desperately for a correct answer to give. You left one of your handkerchiefs down in my case, do you mind if I keep it? I wanted to continue telling our discussion about mooncalves? I was wondering what you thought about England, would you ever fancy a visit? I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t stop think about you. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles eventually, raking a finger over the stains embedded on the table top. 

“Me either,” Tina says reminiscently, hugging her cup close to her chest. 

Newt studies her furrowed eyebrows, wishing desperately he was better at reading people. Sighing under his breath, he knows in his heart he has no chance. Even if she said, ‘I danced with every man thinking he was you, came back early because I missed you, and perhaps tomorrow could I sneak onto the boat with you in your case,’ he’d still find a way to misinterpret her. 

“Do you,” he asks tentatively, “go out dancing often?” 

She smiles at him, and Newt’s breath gets caught in his throat. 

“Quite often, I suppose,” Tina says, nodding in thought, taking a sip of cocoa “especially of late,” 

“It’s a good stress reliever, like any exercise,” she says to his questioning look, “and I’ve had quite a lot of stress to get rid of lately,” a dry laugh falls out of her lips, an empty sad thing. 

Newt can’t help but notice the dark circles that sit under her eyes. He’s seen her, every day this week, comforting a crying Queenie, fetching them cups of tea, different types of eggs for dinner, helping out with his creatures, with Jacob’s present. Has going out tonight been the first thing she done for herself after all that’s happened? 

Newt slowly inclines his leg, going slow, as he would with a skittish animal, till his ankle is pressed up against her own. His socked foot touching her naked one. He holds his breath as Tina starts, eyes widening in surprise. He tries to keep his foot as still as possible, even though the heat radiating from her foot is like he's just sunk into a hot bath. It makes butterfly’s flutter in his stomach, and Newt has to resist the urge to rub up against her like a baby kneazle. 

Tina’s still frozen, the muscle in her leg tense and her bottom lip wobbling. Reluctantly he begins to retract his touch, obviously unwelcome. ‘You’re so stupid Newton,’ he berates himself, ‘of course she doesn’t want you touching her, she’s just been out with a fellow,’. But almost like magic Tina jumps into motion, almost too enthusiastically crashing into his foot, her big toe catching in the downturn of his sock. Her nail scrapes down his skin, and Newt gasps as sudden shiver race up his spin.

“Sorry,” she splutters, wringing her hands, “sorry, you were being nice, I’m sorry,” she hastily removes her foot, placing her ankle about an inch away from his own, not quite touching, but so, so close. 

The appropriate calming words stick in his throat, and Newt watches horrified as Tina hangs her head, letting out a loud sniff and whispers something under her breath, inaudible to his ears. He can almost see her building up her protective walls, brick by brick, her soft smile morphing into a frown. Like a Nundu puffing out breaths full of poison, warning off unwanted companions. He doesn’t want to be unwanted by her.

Carefully he replaces his foot, rubbing it gently up against hers. Tina looks up, stunned, her walls crumbling. Cautiously she rubs back, soft circles into his yellow and grey socks, and can’t help the contented sigh that breaks out of him at her gentle touch. Tina’s eyes are glassy, almost swimming with tears, threatening to pool over. Newt stares helplessly into them, unable to look away.  
The soft candle light seems to come alive in her eyes, tiny flames dancing on her pupils. 'Just like fire, on dark water', Newt thinks entranced, 'like a salamander'. 

“What do you do?” Tina asks blinking rapidly, clearly trying to prevent her tears from dropping, “to de-stress I mean,” 

Newt’s hand itches to reach for the handkerchief in his pocket, but feels as if she would not appreciate any attention being draw towards it. 

“I suppose, with my creatures I am able to calm,” He says carefully not noticing her discreetly wiping her cheeks, “nothing seems as bad as long as I’m with them,” Tina nods vigorously.

“Yes, I’ve seen you,” she says, then bites her lip shyly, when he widens his eyes, "I’m sorry, it’s just you always look at home with them, and the creatures, they look at you like you’re their whole world,” 

Newt stares at her pink features, touched that she had taken such an interest in him, in his beasts. The fact that she no longer sees his friends as monsters, something to be exterminated, instead now as creatures, beings, capable of love, deserving of care. It warms his soul. 

“Thank you,” he whispers bashfully, and they both stare down at their cups, silly smiles on their faces. 

“I do have a gramophone, with music, classical mainly,” Newt eventually admits, and Tina raises and inquisitive eyebrow, “but I’ve never used it for dancing myself, although I suppose I do know a few mating dances,” he trails off,  
recollecting the makeshift marks he’s engraved on the floor, to practice and learn how his fantastic creatures attract partners. How this knowledge actually became useful in his recent adventure. 

“Mating...dances,” Tina repeats, slowly, as if tasting the words on her tongue.

“Yes, the human equivalent of courting,” Newt rambles unthinkingly, “though some creatures don’t use such methods, and of course some change their dance according to the climate or country,” he stops in his tracks nervously. 

Most people don’t like listening to him prattling on about creature business, and witches normally turn pale at the very mention of the word ‘mating’. However, turning to Tina, he finds to his surprise, that her eyes bright and inquisitive. 

“How’d you know? That they change?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the table, pressing forward. 

At her clear curiosity, Newt can’t help himself; he also leans closer, their knees now brushing under together. 

“I noticed it first with the bowtruckles,” he explains passionately, fired up by her enthusiasm, “due to their humanoid limbs, they dance much like us, and I found when I traveled that they tend to match their dances-“

“To whatever dance is traditional in a country!” Tina exclaims excitedly. 

“Yes, exactly,” Newt gazes at her wondrously, his smile pulling at his cheeks.

“That’s amazing,” she says, sitting back on her chair beaming, “could you show me?” 

“A…A mating dance?” he asks hesitantly, one hand nervously massaging the back of his neck. 

Tina’s mouth falls open, a delicate ‘o’. Then she quickly looks down, clearly embarrassed, twiddling her thumbs so swiftly they become a blur. Her eyelashes flutter on her cheeks, and her deep blush has worked its way down her neck and across her collarbones. Newt wills himself not to stare, to not picture his tongue dipping into her soft looking skin. How sweet her sighs would be underneath him, how she would wind her hands into his hair. That’s how most mating dances end after all. He shakes his head hurriedly, attempting to rid these inappropriate thoughts from his head, as if they could leave through his ears. ‘She didn’t mean it like that,’ as multiple fantasies of her pale skin pressed up against his freckled, enters anyway, ‘it’s for pure academic purposes, nothing untoward’. Newt clears his throat and Tina looks up, though still refuses to meet his eye. 

“Ah, I can’t show you a bowtruckle dance,” he says apologetically, wanting desperately to get back the ease of their conversation before, “I don’t know this ‘Charleston’, you see,” he quips weakly and she lets out a shaky chuckle, shoulders straightening a little. 

“But I can do…” Newt’s mind races.

The most obvious choice would be the erumpent. That’s the most recent one he’s performed after all. However, he can’t shake the feeling of wanting to impress Tina, seduce her like the dance would do to the beast. His own version of what other men must’ve been doing tonight; like kissing her hand, or pulling out her chair. And he doesn’t think wiggling his bottom in front of Tina will help his cause. 

Newt astutely makes his way through possible candidates.  
No, requires a loud screech that would surely wake the neighbours.  
No, requires him to slowly strip down to his natural state, and though appealing, would probably end with him getting hexed.  
And also no, contains too much decapitation.  
But this one, this one, his fingers drum on the table, just might work. 

“There’s a thunderbird mating dance,” Newt says shyly, “I mean as long as you don’t mind my lack of wingspan,” 

“Thunderbird?” Tina says quietly. She’s twisting her necklace round her fingers, eyes flicking between him and the coat stand near the door, where a purple coloured scarf hangs, “yes, I’d love to see it,” 

“Okay then, great,” he says, wanting to feel excited but unable to stop the nerves the size of beach balls bouncing against his ribs. 

Swiftly standing, and pushing in his chair, Newt takes a quick walk round the living room checking for possible objects he could trip over. The squeak of a chair catches his attention, and he looks round to find Tina walking around the table and sitting down on the back of his chair. Giving him a tentative smile and crossing one dainty ankle over the other, she watches his every movement, fully engrossed. And to his surprise, he finds he likes it, her pure devotion. Normally it’s him, trailing after someone, whether it be Theseus, Dumbledore, or once upon a time Leta. Those three always wanting something from him, whether it be his allegiance, his expertise, or his love. Tina however…

“You okay, Newt?” she asks him anxiously, “you don’t have do anything you don’t want to do, especially for my sake,”

One of her bottom teeth is resting on her pink bottom lip. She bites down on the soft pillow when she smiles as well; it must be an unconscious habit. Newt dimply wonders what it would happen if he kissed her. Would he feel a slight indentation?

“No, no I want to show you,” he says hastily, stretching out his limbs. It’s only just occurred to him he’s wearing an old white shirt, with his old Hogwarts Hufflepuff pyjama bottoms. They’re slightly too short at the ankle, and there’s an old soup stain covering his fraying breast pocket. Newt feels the tip of his ears go pink, “just give me a second,” 

“Take as long as you need,” Tina nods earnestly, eyes sparkling, “you’ve got my full attention,” 

‘You need a giver’

Newt slowly forces himself to count himself in, wishing dizzily he had a camera to properly capture this moment, to capture her. What’s he going to do when he leaves? He’s got to find a photo of her somewhere, though he doubts it’ll compare. 

“One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three,”

Newt spreads his right leg to the side, and both his arms wide, bowing at the hips. Closing his eyes, he imagines feathers sprouting out of his wrists, his arms, his fingertips. And all at once he’s a creature, ruling the plains of Arizona. 

So he begins to dance. It’s hard to perform this certain dance on the ground, as of course the Thunderbird’s mate in the sky, so his feet do a kind of waltz mixed with a folk dance. His socked feet slide a little on the cold floorboards, but he somehow still manages to make himself graceful; one ankle gently over the other, slide, and repeat, round and round in a large circle. Anyway it’s that arms that are truly important. It’s well known- well in magizoologist circles anyway- that a large wingspan means more mates for a male Thunderbird. And so he tries to hold himself like he was trying to hug the world, muscles aching in the effort of being seen impressive. 

Newt is squinting slightly, his vision a mere slit. But this is on purpose. He’s trying to pretend the tips of his fingertips are touching the first feathers of the edge of a wing of a dark eyed female bird. He rotates like this once, then he takes a step closer. Now him and the female’s wings would touch in the middle, beaks almost clacking together but not quite. Then he takes another step inwards. Now their beaks would be brushing, feathered torsos flush together. Newt dances faster, faster, becoming a little dizzy in his insistence of doing this right. Finally, he raises his arms higher, his thumbs and pointing fingers touching, reaching the dances climax. He spins in an elegant pirouette, finishing facing Tina, panting heavily. 

He’s still fluttering his fingers a bit, bird like, and sweat is running down his neck. Tina’s studying him reverently, her eyes wide and owlish, gaze dark. She’s not smiling. Newt drops his arms, leaving them swinging uselessly at his side. He’s not sure if he should be embarrassed or not. She certainly doesn’t look disgusted, he’s well aware of that expression on others when he acts 'beast-like'. But she also looks incredibly serious, one of her hands is moving like a conductor in the beat of his dance. He clears his throat and her head gives a jerk, as if she a just awoken for a nap. 

“Tada!” Newt says weakly, rocking awkwardly on his heels.

“That was incredible,” Tina whispers. She’s being honest, her face is as open as a book. Her chest is rising as heavy and fast as his is. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs bashfully, dipping his head slightly. 

“How’d you learn how to do that?” she asks wondrously, pushing off the table, and walking towards him. 

“Ahh you know,” Newt stares down at her bare feet, hands strangely clammy, “I observe, and then I practice,” Her feet are rather tiny, for such a tall person, he thinks dimly. Or maybe it’s just his height. If only he had some prints. 

“Do you think,” Tina asks hesitantly, her fingers playing with her skirt, “do you think I could have a go?” 

Newt looks up, jaw unhinging. She looks back, eyes boring into his sincerely. The fire is still there, despite the lack of candle light near them. It just must be something in her, something lit by the passion in her soul that causes the flames to flicker. Passion for her work, but also now he thinks numbly, passion for his creatures. His mouth runs dry, and he licks his lips, noticing with a stutter how her eye line follows the slip of his tongue. 

“Yes,” he says fervently, a hot heat radiating from his chest and out of his collar, “do you want me to do it again, but slower perhaps?”

“No, no, I was watching,” she gives him a nervous smile, “I think I can do it,” Newt watches how her shoulders straighten, how determination writes itself into her brow. He’s seen that expression on her face before. He can’t help it. He smiles himself; he’s not going to be able to stop her even if he tried. 

“Okay, you stay there,” Newt holds out a hand for her to stay, and moves back a little to give them some space, “and then, I suppose,” he resists the urge to wipe his clammy hands on his pants, afraid she might think he doesn’t want to touch her. He does. Merlin he does. 

“One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three,” Tina says, eyes floating shut, swaying a little with the beat. 

Her foot slides out, smooth and pointed like a ballet dancer. But her arms stretch out wide and confidentially, like she’s just about to cast a dangerous spell. Her eyes flick open, and she stares at him blankly. Newt realises he’s yet to move and quickly rushes to follow her, cheeks aflame. They bow like hippogriffs, keeping their steady eye contact, as if they’re too afraid to look away. 

Then they begin to waltz. Tina’s expression is slightly mused, as if she’s far away, despite her deliberate and mostly accurate footsteps. Newt watches her intently, her peaceful expression, moving closer accidentally, sooner than he meant to, brushing their fingertips together. She jumps, and takes a shaky breath, but then she also takes a step closer. Their finger scissor together and something pulls tight in his belly. 

“Do you know that I was a Thunderbird?” Tina asks him quietly, as they slowly spin round and round, “at school I mean?” 

Newt thinks back to all the times he watched her staring wistfully up at Frank’s empty enclosure. Her clear wonder when his friend took flight, how she stepped forward while everyone else stepped back.

“Really?” he asks, but there’s no real inquiry behind it. More like admiration and a puzzle piece being slid into a slot. And then before his mind can override his mouth he blurts out, “did you run into any tonight? Old Thunderbirds?”

“Classmates?” Tina says sounding more than a little shocked, and Newt quickly averts his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek, “no why?” 

“I was just wondering who you went…” he trails off nervously, taking a wrong step, and tripping over his feet. 

“Oh,” she exhales softly, her fringe falling over her eyes. 

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, just being stupid,” he fumbles, letting her fingers fall through his, and moving frantically away from her embrace. 

“No!” Tina exclaims, frightened. She goes to take a step forward, but her bare feet skid on the cold floorboards, and stumbles. Newt, on instinct, rushes forward catching her. 

His nose bumps against her forehead, and they sigh together. Newt’s gripping tightly onto her upper arms, nails digging into her naked skin. Tina’s shaking, her harsh breaths hitting his neck. 

“I didn’t, I’m not,” she squeaks quickly, breathing through her nose, “I mean, I never go out with anyone, no one has ever asked me,” She looks up, desperate eyes pleading with him to understanding her. 

Newt nods, trying not to act too happy, despite the deep satisfied purr in his chest. ‘She went alone, she’s not with anyone,’ He gleefully disposes of all the smarmy American men he’d imagined had swarmed to take her arm.

“Good,” he says breathlessly, and she looks at him strangely, one eyebrow raised, and his heart begins to patter with fear when he realises what he just said. 

“I mean it’s not ‘good’ that you’re alone, of course, I don’t want you to be alone, it’s just ‘good’ that nobody asked you,” Tina leans back a little, raising both her eyebrows in clear derision.

“I mean,” Newt says stricken. But to his surprise Tina smiles, just like she did on top of the roof top, and just like then, he’s unable to look away. 

“I think I know what you mean,” she says joyfully. 

Then she leans in, slowly, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. Newt stiffens at first, not really one for hugs, or touching. But with Tina…it’s a pleasant buzz when she folds herself into him, that travels through his head to his toes. A buzz that makes his body relax and arms curl themselves around her waist. They sway together, in a half hug, half dance. Newt settles his chin into her shoulder, and Tina sighs and rests her head against his. He feels slightly faint, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. A weight that had been there and ignored for far too long. He clutches at Tina tighter, at this marvelous woman, who although gets some things wrong, always wants to make things right. And then Newt hears it. A crack, from deep inside his chest, audible to only him. It’s the sound of the lock around his heart breaking in two. 

“Newt,” Tina mumbles, and he pulls back just a little, staring deep into her soulful eyes.

She’s blinking at him tentatively, like she’s waiting for him. ‘She’s never done this before,’ he realises with a jolt, ‘it’s up to me,’. He looks down. Her lips are pink, slightly chapped. Perfect. 

“Tina,” he breathes, his voice deep like he’s just awoken from a long sleep. Her eyes flutter shut. There’s still a piece of hair caught on her cheek. He would like nothing more in the world than to press it behind her ear, and kiss her gently. He raises a shaking hand. Then drops it uselessly to his side. 

“Could you, would you walk me to the docks tomorrow?” Newt asks instead, gaze dropping to the floor. Coward. 

“Yes, yes, of course, I’d like that,” Tina unwinds her arms from his neck, bottom lip wobbling. 

She’s bobbing up and down, gaze flicking between him, the floor and the ceiling. Newt clenches his fists. One part of him wants to wrap her in his arms again, the other wants to hyperventilate. This, he finds, is the awkward middle ground. Doing nothing. Dammit. 

“Well, I’d better get some sleep,” Tina says, breaking their uncomfortable silence, voice falsely bright, “I’ve got to get up early for my meeting with the President tomorrow,” 

“Yes, right,” he says faintly, as she turns away, head bowed and begins walking towards her bedroom. 

A strange urge of panic grips at this throat at her slowly stepping away. Is that the way it’s going to be tomorrow? They awkwardly say goodbye and then Newt will have to watch her step back into her old life, as he floats away to his, never to see each other again. No, he can’t have that, not when he can still feel the hum of her touch sing through him. Not when he can see her eyes smiling at him when he closes his own. 

“Tina,” he calls, rushing over to her, clumsily pulling his wand out of his pocket.

“Yes?” she says curiously, turning around to meet him, as he summons his notebook containing his manuscript notes and an old pencil from his case. 

Newt awkwardly balances his notebook on his knee, scribbling his address on a bit on empty paper. He rips it out carefully, folds it and two and holds it out to her. Tina takes it carefully, between her fingers. Their hands don’t touch, and for some reason he feels a pang of disappointment. 

“It’s my address, in London,” Newt says, his words tripping over one another, “so you can write to me, if you want that is,” 

Tina stares at him dumbfounded opening his gift reverently, running a finger over his messy hand writing.

“You want me to write to you?” she asks him quietly, gripping the piece of paper so tightly he’s afraid the lead will smudge.

“Yes,” Newt says, nodding his head frantically, “please,” 

“Okay,” Tina’s face wobbles a little, but then she beams, and it’s like the sun has come out. He can’t help but grin toothily back.

“Good, great, good, yes,” He says stupidly, one hand rubbing his back of his neck.

There’s a lightness in Newt’s chest, a large happiness blowing up with a balloon. She’s going to write to him! He wonders what her hand writing will be like, messy and passionate, or clear and careful. Perhaps a mesh of both. Tina’s smiling large and wide, her cheeks splitting at the seams. It’s like magic that smile, and it pulls him in like gravity. She doesn’t dole out her smiles lightly, not like everyone else in the world. So when she's smiling he knows she means it, knows she's truly happy right now. Newt never wants her smile to disappear, never wants to look away. No doubt they would’ve stayed in that position all night long, if it wasn’t for a particularly well timed snuffle from Queenie. Newt jumps, and the spell is broken. Tina stifles a yawn behind her hand. 

“I should let you,” he waves vaguely at her bedroom, and she nods weakly, placing a trembling hand on the rooms doorknob. 

Newt takes a deep breath taking her in just for a little longer, then moves swiftly towards his case, and begins to climb down. 

“Goodnight,” Tina says shyly and he turns his head slightly. 

She’s leaning on her door frame, his note tucked in her hand, which she has pressed against her heart. 

“Goodnight,” Newt says softly, gives her one last smile before sliding all the way down into his shed. 

He takes a deep breath. He can still smell her on his skin. There's a smog of cigarette smoke that must’ve come from the speakeasy. But underneath there’s the sharp tang of old ink, and the light scent of lavender. Her bed smelt like that too, when he laid down in it briefly. Will her envelopes smell like that, when the owls sweep into his house? Newt swallows tightly. Tina smells good, attractive. He’s attracted to her, wants to keep her close. He wants to try. 

Leta’s photo smiles at him, taken at that ball so many years ago. He walks over, running finger over the grain of the frame. It’s been ten years. Ten years of pining, ten years of loneliness. And for what? Leta’s reflection raises a dainty eyebrow, her gaze soft and sultry. Newt turns the frame over, placing it down on the desk. He finds, for the first time, he doesn’t want to pick it up again. Instead he wants to climb upstairs again, and cup Tina’s face in his hands. Tell her he’ll stay, Madame Picurey be damned. 

Newt crawls into bed, tucking a snoring Pickett into his breast coat pocket. He rubs his chin into his neck, where Tina's head only minutes ago lay. Ink and lavender. Merlin’s beard. He shuts his eyes tight, gathering his pillow to his chest. It’s almost enough to imagine that Tina’s lying beside him, her head pressed into his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone liked it!


End file.
